


Peace

by jellyfishline



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Dean POV, Depression, Gen, Suicide, seriously major suicide warning, this is not a happy story
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-14
Updated: 2014-08-14
Packaged: 2018-02-13 04:07:12
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 818
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2136390
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jellyfishline/pseuds/jellyfishline
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean takes a walk. He brings his gun.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Peace

It’s a peaceful night.

Cool too. Normal for South Dakota, even in summer. Still, there’s an edge to it. A bite.

Dean takes a walk. A butter-color moon gives a silver-leaf tinge to the skeleton cars, junkyard trees and the backs of Dean’s hands. He shoves them in his pockets. Warmer that way.

It’s a beautiful night. It’s a framed-photo in a weathered album on the shelf. Crickets chirp and birds hmm and Dean’s boots scrape gravel with a sandpaper hush. It’s a lullaby quiet. Good night for dreaming.

Not that Dean intends to dream.

He’s got some whiskey with him. Some empty bottles back at Bobby’s. Good southern courage burns his throat. He loves that feeling. He craves the sweetness, the foggy brain-static mush of limbs that don’t quite remember what they’re for. It’s as good as sex but a better morning-after. Dean’ll take headaches over goodbyes any day.

There’s no goodbyes tonight. Sam’s still tucked up on the couch snoring a storm. Bobby’s in bed. Dean checked. They sleep with no worry on their faces, young as kids. They won’t miss him.

A spotlight cuts the night. Dean passes it. He doesn’t want to stand around in the light. Just somewhere nice and dark. Quiet.

There’s a place between two cars. Dean slips into it, splays out his legs. Looks up at the moon.

Goddamn, it is a beautiful night.

He shrugs off his coat. Cold nips at his arms, makes little pin-pricks of his skin. He folds the coat up neat and puts it on the hood of the car next to him. Just doesn’t seem right, to wear the coat. That’s not what Dad wore it for, what Dean kept it for.

Dean’s heart pounds. His fingers prickle with adrenalin, the tips just ghosting the cold steel of his gun before he pulls it from his pocket.

He loves his gun. Loves the engravings and the glisten of steel in the light. He keeps it clean as his car. He loves the weight in his hand, the look of it. Always makes him feel like a cowboy when he holds it, like those old movie heroes he used to worship.

None of them ever did this, did they. None of them ever ran their fingers down the barrel, knew their guns so good with their eyes closed. None of them ever took these walks.

Nightmares still play like shitty reruns in his head. Shoulda known not to sleep tonight. But there’s only so many pills you can take before your brother confiscates your stash. Fuck Sam.

Means well, but damn. Boy just doesn’t know.

Thank fuck he doesn’t know.

Another selling point—if he does it now, Sam’ll never know. There’s nobody else to tell him but Dean. Dean’s got no plans to tell him, but you never know—his lips get loose when he’s drunk, sometimes.

Tonight, Dean thinks. Maybe tonight.

Maybe right now?

The trigger tingles under his touch. Be so easy. Dean knows exactly how it’d feel. The weight pressure release. Relief.

So many pros, so few cons.

Dean kisses the barrel. Wraps his lips around the cold steel and oh, he knows that taste, that bitter metal down his throat. He’s tried so many times. Never went through with, obviously. Coward.

It’s easy. But his hands just won’t agree. They tremble, fingers slipping. He can’t get them to settle on the trigger.

The moon glows above him. Dean stares into it, feels the crickets in the underbrush and the clouds above and the goddamn angels gather in the dark to watch. They’re all watching. Dean wishes he could undo himself like a shoelace, just tug and take himself right out of the equation. Wishes he wasn’t born. Wishes he could find a place so secluded no god could ever find his soul.

He takes the gun out of his mouth. Tosses it to the ground in disgust. Such a fuck up he can’t even kill himself. Not even worth the bullet it’d take to end his pathetic shitstain of a life.

Shit.

He curls up. Arms around his knees, eyes hidden.

Maybe he doesn’t really want to die. But God, he doesn’t want to be alive.

***

Bobby finds him. A little boy’s body, limbs all splayed out and hugging the gravel. His rosy cheeks are soft in the morning light.

Sleeping.

Bobby’d love to scoop him into his arms like he could when Dean was a little thing and set him back at home. He could curl up with Sam on the couch, warm blankets and bed and a hot meal when he woke. But Dean’s grown now, and Bobby’s old, and God knows he shouldn’t risk him waking up.

Bobby drapes the coat over his shoulders. Dean snuggles under the weight, mouth open, breaths restful and relaxed.

It’s a rare and beautiful thing, to see Dean catching some peace.


End file.
